The Sinner of the Saints

The boy was out beside the house, and he gave Paul a startled look and then came whooping across the lawn to be swung high. The yells brought Myrna out onto the front steps and she stood, smiling in that attractive way of hers, strangely shy, the way she always was when Paul came home from one of the road trips.

He held her close and a lot of the loneliness went out of him. Whatever happened, she was here. She had been here, right up through the farm clubs, right up to the top where now he was unable to fulfill the earlier promise.

He sat Sandy, the girl, on his shoulder and took Kip’s hand and followed Myrna into the house.

“You’re hungry,” Myrna said.

“Ate on the train, honey.”

“You kids run along,” she said. “You can climb all over your daddy later.”

They left obediently, with wistful backward looks.

Myrna regarded him with her quiet blue eyes. “I heard three of the games, saw one on TV, and read about the rest.”

He stood up quickly, restless. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m the best catcher we’ve got. You know that. Muzzol, the backstop. Hitting .283. Not good, not bad. Powdered one four hundred and forty feet and broke up that twelve-inning deadlock. But it doesn’t do any good.”

“Don’t nibble on yourself, darling.”

“With Crambough they come alive. They work. They laugh and they’ve got pepper and they’ve got to win. When I work behind the plate it turns into a trade, not a game. They miss chance. Belton and Sharker were shaking off my signals all the time. Now Stiss has started shaking them off. Tuesday Stiss shakes off a slow curve and dishes up a fast ball. A gopher. Good-bye ball game.”

Myrna frowned. “Why doesn’t Mr. Rogan tell them they can’t shake off your calls, Paul?”

“Baseball doesn’t work that way. A catcher takes control or he don’t. What the hell can I do? Go bang those guys in the mouth? Five years I’ve been trying to get up here, just to play with them. I work my heart out. These guys... I just seem to amuse them or something. One ball in a hundred gets by me and the fans boo and the infield looks disgusted. That Crambough! He loses a pop foul and what happens? ‘Nice try, Johnny!’ Batting .254, and Rogan uses him on the tight ones instead of me!”

He was standing with his back to her. She came to him. “You’ll work it out, Paul.”

He smiled bitterly. “Oh, sure. How much time is left? We stay ahead of the Sox and we got four more home games and then the series. He uses Crambough behind the plate in the series, and next year I’m back in triple A.”

“Or maybe with another major-league club, darling.”

His face twisted. “I don’t want to be with another major-league club. You know that. Ever since I was a little kid. The big dream. Muzzol catching for the Saints. So now I’m with ’em, Myrna, but I’m not one of them. Damn it, I feel like I ought to go show them my clippings. I want to say, look! I’m Muzzol. I hit .343 last year. I carried the Robins on my back. Know what that would mean to them? Just exactly nothing.”

She looked at him steadily, her hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me, Paul. You’ve got a two-day layoff. We won’t talk about it any more. Just rest, dear. Whatever happens, we’ll make out. You know that.”

“But I...”

She stopped him by putting her fingertips against his lips. “Now kiss me.”

He went out and oiled the lawn mower and went to work on the grass. It wasn’t really high enough to cut, but he wanted the monotony of the job, wanted his muscles used. There were things you couldn’t tell Myrna. Like that foul tip in Cleveland. He knew the ball had been deflected, and the batter knew it, too. And the umpire called it a ball. He had thrown down mask and hat and glove and ball in rage. Nobody swarmed out of the dugout to support him. Nobody trotted in from the infield. And so his rage had quickly faded away when he looked out and saw them standing there, waiting patiently. Detached, unamused.

And then, in Philadelphia, being run over in a play at the plate, after a late throw from Raneri at short. Paul had been bounced back so hard he rolled almost to the screen, getting up sick-dizzy. If that had happened on the Robins, they’d have come in howling for blood. But the Saints just stood around, patient, waiting. And, when nobody backs you, you brush yourself off, watch that big run tallied out on the board, and squat behind the next batter, calling a pitch that will be used only if the pitcher happens to like it.

Over near the hedge, Mr. Crane, his neighbor, smiled and said, “Hi there, Muzzol!”

“Hello, Mr. Crane.”

“I guess you guys are pretty worried, huh?”

Paul wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “How do you mean?”

“Well, the way the Saints have lost their snap. Hell, you were five and a half games up in July. Looked like a walk-away. Now those Sox are just a game back and they’re coming strong.”

“We’ll make out,” Paul said.

“That’s the trouble with you guys — taking it easy. The Saints been in too many series, you ask me. It’s going to be one hell of a surprise to you guys when the Sox nose you out for the pennant.”

“They won’t.”

“I been following the Saints now for fifteen years. You know the trouble? No spark plugs. None of the old pepper gang. Sure, you got top bail players, but none of them play over their head the way they used to.”

Paul felt anger constricting his throat. “We play to win.”

Suddenly Crane smiled. “I’m not trying to take it out on you, Muzzol. I just miss the old fire out there.” He lowered his voice. “Look, Muzzol. Don’t get sore, but I got something to tell you and I don’t want you taking it wrong.”

“I won’t. What is it?”

“There’s this guy at the office. He likes it out here. We get along swell, and so do our old ladies. You want to unload this house any time, you just let me know.”

Paul stared at him, anger gone, a dull sickness replacing it.

“No point in paying a real estate agent his bite if you don’t have to.”

“Sure,” Paul said.

Myrna put the kids to bed early and a neighbor girl came over to sit. Paul and Myrna walked down to a neighborhood movie. Paul kept up the pretense of being relaxed and happy. But late into the night, with Myrna asleep beside him, he looked at the ceiling and replayed bits and pieces of the games all season.

It was in Boston that he had misinterpreted a signal from the bench and got nailed trying to steal second. After the game, a game they had won, Paul had taken his time in the dressing room, waiting for a tongue-lashing from Rogan. But it had never come. It left him with an empty feeling. Do something stupid and you want to hear about it.

Well, there were three regular games to go, plus a reschedule of one that had been rained out. Three against the Bombers and then that extra one with the cellar Dons. He wondered which ones he’d catch, if any. He knew, bleakly, that he wouldn’t be catching any if it wasn’t for the fact that Johnny Crambough had been in the majors too long to go a full season without relief. And Rogan wanted Crambough saved for the World Series, to give the team that little jump he alone seemed able to provide.

He knew it wasn’t because it was his first year in the majors. It was the first year in the big time for Sildon and Leroy, too. But they had fitted right in, right from the beginning. Something had made them Saints, and that same something had skipped right over Paul Muzzol. Like being admitted to an exclusive club or something, and then they find out something about you that makes you not fit to be a member, so they stay nice and courteous until they get the right chance to ease you out. Nice try, old man.

Maybe it was because both Sildon and Leroy had come in right out of college. Whereas he had married Myrna when he was nineteen and she only seventeen, right that first month after getting out of the Army, and then two years of playing ball for Heaslip’s Foundry until the scout happened to come along. Five years in the bushes, but worth it, you thought, to get to the top. Only then you learn that somehow you don’t fit...

When he woke up it was after ten. Myrna had let him sleep. He felt stale and old, and not much better after breakfast. In the afternoon Rogan phoned him and told him he was catching the first Bomber game of the three-game series, starting tomorrow afternoon at two in the big home park, and be out there by twelve-forty, please. There was no warmth in the voice.

The next day he ate lightly at eleven-thirty and took a bus out to the park. Al Sharker was pitching, and Paul caught him as he warmed up. With Sharker you had to use the little disc of foam rubber, because he used his truly blazing speed to pull out of jams when the hook wouldn’t break off right and those flat, lazy sliders slid a bit too far. And that speed had just a threat of wildness that kept them from hogging their way into unnecessary walks by crowding the plate.

After “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the game started. Forty thousand fans. Hot day. Bleachers ablaze with white shirts. Dust off the base paths. The heat settled down on the voices that yelled across the infield, muffling them. The Bombers had a lot of snap and ginger. They couldn’t, by any chance, sneak into the series, but they would take a lot of lusty pleasure out of knocking the Saints out of there. A young team, with the past season smoothing a lot of the rough edges, making them a real threat next year.

It was in the third inning that Sharker shook off Paul’s call. The Bomber had fouled off the first two pitches and Paul wanted him teased with some high outside ones, pitches he might reach for and hit softly for an easy out. Paul tried again, and Sharker, expressionless, shook his big head. Paul, with a half shrug, called for the fast ball. Sharker pitched. The batter swung a foot above it for the strike-out, retiring the side. As the Saints trotted off the field Paul remembered that Sharker had had a strike-out in each of the first three innings.

Paul came up for the second time in the fourth inning, slammed a crisp single between short and third, and died on second after a walk had sent him there.

In the fifth the Saints pushed across two runs. A new Bomber pitcher put out the fire. Sharker was still going strong. So far, a no-hitter.

He carried it to two down in the seventh, when he shook off Paul’s sign. Sharker wanted to use the fast ball. Paul went out to talk to him.

“That fast one’s beginning to handle easy,” Paul said.

“It’s still got enough. Fast one it is,” Sharker told him flatly.

Paul looked away. “Suit yourself.”

It came down the middle, grooved. The batter bounced it off the fence for a stand-up double. Sharker pitched carefully and retired the side. He spoke to Paul as he came off. “Don’t come out to chat when I’m hot. You put me off.”

Paul clamped his mouth shut.

They won that one. The next day he watched Johnny Crambough catch Huey Stiss. Stiss gave up five runs, but Johnny Crambough chattered and yelped and pleaded, and in the fifth Sildon slammed one to the right-field fence just under the lower deck and stretched it to three bases. Boots Sharmody, the big gun from right field, brought him home with a single, and Crambough hit a home run.

In the seventh, the Saints pushed two more across, tying it up. Shockman, in relief, was pitching sweetly. Nobody scored in the eighth, ninth, or tenth.

In the eleventh, the Bombers got a man on first, sacrificed him to second. The next man swung and barely tipped the ball. The ball rolled off to the side, rolled a long way. The man on second took off. Crambough, after an odd interval of motionlessness, pounced on the free ball and snapped it to third. It hit the dirt and rolled out along the foul line. The fielder raced in and grabbed it too late to nail the runner at the plate.

Paul found himself standing by Crambough without knowing how he got there.

“Let me see it,” he demanded harshly.

Crambough uncovered the finger. The nail and tip were split deep.

As Paul dressed, Rogan came over. “You catch from here on in.”

Paul waited for some word of advice or encouragement, but none came.

During the last Bomber game the Saints were dead on their feet. Paul tried to ape Johnny Crambough's chatter. It went flat. After two innings he gave up. In the batting order he made nothing for four. He made two errors. But the Bomber infield fell apart, and the Saints came through, four to one.

In the meantime, the Sox had been on fire. And it meant a play-off. Paul found himself wishing that they’d lost the third Bomber game. Ever since Johnny’s accident, the Saints had acted as though one Paul Muzzol had personally slammed Crambough’s hand with a sledge. Nobody glared at him; they just acted as though he wasn’t there.

Play-off, and the series just around the corner, and sixty-one thousand fans making a constant roar.

Sharker up there. Big, whip-armed Sharker, with cold eyes. He spoke once to Paul. “No advice, friend. Just catch the ball.”

The Sox big lead-off man, Hal Daniels, beat out a bunt, catching Bucky Leroy flatfooted.

“Snap it up, all you tired old men,” Daniels brayed, taking a lead-off first.

The second Sox batter got a small piece of the ball. Paul churned down the third baseline into fair territory.

“Got it!” he yelled for Leroy’s benefit. A split second later, reaching for the ball, he ran headlong into Leroy. They both went down.

“I yelled for it!” Paul said hotly, aware of two runners on base now. Sharker was scowling. The Sox were razzing them heartily.

Leroy flushed. “You think you yelled for it. That yell you heard was me!”

The next batter grinned. “I’ll hit this one to left field, Muzzol. Think you can get out there in time to catch it?”

Sharker expressed his fury with his fast ball. The batter dropped flat to get out of the way of two pitches, loaded the bases on the fourth ball.

Paul went out to steady Sharker down. “You got all day. Lay off the fast ones or you won’t last.”

“Go back and catch, you clown. And stay away from third base!”

Paul didn’t let himself get angry. He trudged back to the plate. The Sox cleanup man hit a double off the first pitch, scoring all the men on base. Rogan left Sharker in. Sharker ignored Paul's signs. He made the next three men dribble easy balls to the infield and stalked off the field.

“Thanks to you, Muzzol,” Sharker said, “They got a nice fat inning.”

That did it. To hell with these fancy Saints! Paul followed Sharker to the dugout. Maybe there was less dough in triple-A ball, but at least the guys played as a team and wanted to win.

Paul walked directly over to Rogan. “Am I calling pitches?”

“What do you mean, son?” Rogan asked quietly.

“He shakes off every sign I give him,” Paul said, pointing toward Sharker.

Rogan shrugged. “I can’t make the pitching staff take your advice, Muzzol.” Sharker said, “When this bush leaguer starts telling me how to pitch, I hang up my glove—”

Paul grabbed the front of Sharker’s jacket and yanked him off the bench. He shook him as a dog shakes a rag. “The next time you shake off a sign, I'll come out to the mound and slug you!”

Sharker said, “What the hell, Rogan?”

Rogan lit his pipe. “He’s catching you, Al. Not me.”

They all heard it. They kept giving Paul sidelong curious looks. Sharker, when Paul released him, glared.

Paul sat beside him. “If you think I don’t mean it, Al, just try shaking your head again. I spent a thousand hours studying these guys. I know how you got to pitch to every one of them. And I know just how much stuff you got, and I know how to save you for the distance. So just shake another one off and watch me come out there after you.”

The first Sox to face Sharker in the second inning was a notorious bad ball hitter. Sharker wasn’t fool enough to ignore Paul’s sign on that one; they got an easy out. The next man was more questionable. Paul called an outcurve. It broke nicely for a called strike. Paul signaled a fast one. Sharker shook his head.

Paul called time and went out, his fist doubled.

“Have you gone nuts?” Sharker asked.

The crowd had sensed something wrong. A sudden hush stilled the voices.

“They’ll toss me out,” Paul said grimly, “but they’ll need a new pitcher...”

Raneri had moved in front short. Towers from second base, Lannerhan from first.

“This guy thinks he’s going to swing on me,” Sharker said.

“Let’s play ball.” Raneri said.

“The fast ball, Al?” Paul demanded. “I mean it.”

Al said, “The guy’s nuts!” He watched Paul come closer. “O.K. You get your fast ball. But I'll see you after the game.”

“You do that,” Paul said, ignoring the angry bellow of the umpires. He got the fast ball for a strike, and a slider for the strike-out. The third man bounced out to Raneri.

Paul’s anger was a dull burning inside his chest. At bat in the second, he swung so hard at the first pitch that he dropped to one knee. He heard the crowd roar with laughter. He poked one through the hole between short and third. He saw the Sox first baseman move a step down the baseline toward him, blocking the base, yet reaching for the ball in a way that meant the interference was intentional. Paul dropped his shoulder and rode the man down. The ball rolled wide. Paul jumped up and headed for second. He went in like a tank, spikes high, safe. The first baseman was walking around in a circle. The trainer came out.

“Hard guy,” the second baseman said.

“Just an old-fashioned ball game.”

This was more like the Robins. Rough, gutty ball, and take your chances and do what you can. He took a long lead off second, and worried the pitcher into wasting three throws to the bag.

Raneri laid down a bunt toward first. He was thrown out at first by a step, but Paul was safe at third. Lannerhan backed the Sox fielder up against the wall, but the long fly was the third out.

Taking the field, Paul told Raneri, “I see you run out bunts harder than that. If you’d beat it, I’d have scored.”

“Shove it.” Raneri said.

“So I see you after the game, too, junior.”

Raneri stared. “What’s eating you?”

“We got a ball game to win. You dogged it.”

“Rogan had no kicks. Why should you.”

“Take your position, Raneri!” the plate umpire yelled.

Raneri turned, his face white. Lannerhan, on first, yelled, “Muzzol’s going to win this game if he has to play the whole nine positions.”

“I could show you something about playing first,” Muzzol yelled.

“You punk!” Leroy yelled from third. “Larry’s been playing first for four years, and you’ll never see your second year with this club.”

“Come in faster on those double-play balls. Leroy, or we’ll both be playing for West Overshoe, Idaho, next year,” Paul yelled back.

Sharker watched the signals carefully. The Sox got a man on first and Sharker walked him to second. The next two popped out. The count on the next man went to two and two. Paul smelled the hit-and-run. He signaled for a pitch-out, almost knocked Leroy over with the throw. The third baseman tagged the runner out.

As Leroy came jogging in, Paul said, “You may make a ball player yet.”

“Put me on that list of yours,” Leroy growled.

Both Cherkis and Sharker were easy outs for Garry Ibbert, the Sox pitcher. Sildon came up and hammered the first pitch over the second baseman’s head. The man went high but couldn’t reach it. The center fielder took it on the second bounce and Sildon held up at first. He took a long lead. Ibbert whirled and threw him out as he tried to scramble back to first.

Paul heard Sharker say to Sildon, “Man, I need runs out there. Don’t go tanglefoot on me.”

“Lay off, Al,” Paul called. “I like a man that takes a long lead.”

Paul grinned out at Sharker, and then eased him through the inning, on soft stuff.

As Sharker came in he said, “Maybe you don’t like catching the fast ball?”

“I like it fine. I like it when you got to use it, Al, not when you use it to show off what a strong arm you got.”

Sharmody came up first in the bottom half of the fourth. He reached first on an error by the Sox shortstop. Leroy laid a bunt down the third base line and ran like a deer, beating the throw, moving Sharmody to second. Towers moved into the batter's box.

Two on and none down. But the Saints didn’t seem to be catching fire — Towers had all the enthusiasm of a plumber picking up a pipe wrench. Towers lifted a towering fly ball that barely got out of the infield.

Paul moved up. A long fly would move Sharmody around to third, and, if it was in the right spot, move Leroy to second. Paul felt so tensed up that he thought his nerves would pop right through his skin. The first pitch came smoking toward his face. He threw himself backward, got up grimly and came in to crowd the plate. The second pitch missed the outside corner for a two and nothing count. Ibbert looked unhappy. The third pitch was a sweeping curve. Part way through his swing, Paul knew he had been fooled and that the pitch was going far outside. It was too late to pull back and he lunged further out. The hard crack of wood on ball tingled all the way up to his shoulders.

He went into third standing up, full of the hot throat-filling of combat and success. He looked out toward the score board and the two looked good. A nice, big, white, fat two.

The Sox third-sacker said. “Lucky Alphonse.”

“Hit ’em where they ain’t.”

“Take a lead, Muzzol. We’ll pick you off.”

“Maybe I’ll steal home.”

Raneri slammed a line drive to deep center. Paul touched up and came home; no hurry. He came across the plate and Lannerhan grabbed his arm, spun him around, thumped his shoulder, grinning. “Get ’em all by yourself, Paulie.”

Lannerhan went down swinging, and retired the side, giving Paul a rueful grimace before trotting out to take his position.

It was a new ball game. Any run from now on was going to be a big one. Sharker worked nicely in the fifth, a nice edge to his control. In the sixth, he got in trouble. He walked one man, and an error by Leroy pushed the man to second, with one on first and none out. Paul walked out, and Raneri, field captain came over.

Raneri said, “Take it easy, Al.”

“We’ll cool ’em off.” Paul said.

Sharker looked coldly at him. “I’ll listen to Raneri.”

Raneri said hotly, “You’ll listen to him, too, Al. He gave you a new ball game.”

Paul ambled back to the plate, giving Sharker time. He called for the soft stuff, and the next Sox batter nearly broke his back. The ball went on a weak hop to Bucky Leroy. Bucky whipped it to second for the force-out and the ball went to first in plenty of time to put out the batter and then came back across the infield to Leroy almost in time to nail the Sox runner coming down from second. Paul didn’t like that play at second. It should have gone back to Leroy to pinch off the most dangerous man, but at that, it had been so close to a triple play that the noise from the stands was a constant scream. If Leroy, on the other hand, had raced back to third with the ball, then thrown to second it might have...

Paul settled down. Two gone and a man on third. Rogan signaled for the play at the plate. The Sox batter dribbled one out to the mound. Al pounced on it and flipped it underhand to Paul, who slammed it hard against the Sox runner’s ribs. They went down in a tangle with Paul clutching the ball.

Above the full-throated roar of the crowd, the Sox base runner yelled, “Next time I’ll put both feet in your face!”

Paul grinned amiably at him. “Which rib you want me to bust next time?”

In the upper half of the seventh, Sharker retired the three men in order, but Paul didn’t like the feel of it. Two of the outs were on long, hard drives. The curves mushed instead of breaking sharply. Paul saw the lines of weariness around Sharker’s mouth.

He approached Sharker in the dugout. “You threw hard in the first innings. Too hard, maybe?”

“I’m fine. What are you trying to do? Sabotage me?”

“You got a nice season with fourteen and six.”

“So what?”

“So you know better than anybody when the stuff is gone. That’s all.”

The Sox came roaring to bat in the top of the eight. They sensed the weakness of the pitcher. Raneri robbed the first batter of a sure hit with a somersaulting, miracle catch.

The next man up hit a line-drive double that took a bad bounce just when it looked as though Sildon would hold it to a single.

Sharker motioned to Paul, and Paul walked out. Sharker said, “I got a few fast ones left. What do you think?”

“Try one and if it feels O.K. I’ll call more.”

The ball came down the slot like a bullet, a called strike at the knees. Paul called it again and it went wild. Paul made a desperate save and the runner darted back to second. Sharker lost the batter on a walk.

The next Sox batter hammered the first pitch solidly. Sildon went back to the wall, gathered it in. The runner touched up and took off. Sildon arrowed the ball in. Sharker moved off the mound and trapped it, and the runner scrambled back to third.

Paul shuddered as he saw the next pitch coming in. You could almost count the stitches. The batter undercut it — a towering foul to the left of the plate. Paul whipped off the mask and raced back. The wind eddying around the high stands, made the ball tricky; they were shouting warnings at him. The ball clopped into the pocket of the glove as he ran into the cement in front of the boxes at the same instant. He fell.

He was lying on his back looking up into a bunch of silly balloons that became faces. He still had the ball. He heard the siren sound of the crowd.

The team was around him. The trainer wouldn’t let him up until he named the date, his address and phone number.

The trainer felt him over. “You sure you feel O.K.?”

“I feel fine.”

The top of the Saint batting order came up in the top of the ninth. Paul sat and watched Sildon bat, and the weakness and dizziness slowly left him. There was an egg over his ear.

He turned and winked at Sharker. “We got ’em that inning.”

“Go on and say it,” Sharker said icily.

“I told you you’re the judge, Al.”

Sharker looked at him for long seconds, and then turned to Rogan. Sharker said, “I’m all through. I can’t pitch another strike ball with a cannon.”

Rogan gave his quiet half-smile and motioned to the bull pen. Belton, the big left-hander, began to work in earnest. Paul swiveled around, tense, as he heard the crack of the bat. Sildon hit nicely, crisply, for a copy-book single. Sharker hunched forward and yelled, “Get one, Sharmody! Get that big one!”

Sharmody, as per instructions, sacrificed Sildon to second. The Saints dugout had come alive. Paul looked around, grinning inside. If you had to knock down a wall with your head to get these guys going, maybe it was worth it. Leroy came up and powdered one. The crowd roar swelled and then sagged as the line drive went foul by inches. Leroy fouled the next one on top of the stands, took two balls in a row to even the count, and then slammed one by the Sox third baseman. The outfielder came in fast, so fast that Sildon had to hold at third. Leroy on first, Sildon on third, and one down. Leroy danced off first, taking the dangerous big lead.

Then, dancing on the base path, Leroy stumbled. Ibbert threw to first. It was a hurried throw, low and to the left. The first baseman made a frantic stab for it but it ticked off the edge of his glove. Sildon broke for home. The second baseman snatched up the deflected ball, whirled and threw to the catcher. Sildon slid hard, hooking, and the Sox catcher missed his tag.

The crowd went crazy. The Saints dugout emptied as they surrounded Sildon, pummeling him.

Sildon yelled, “Sure glad it wasn’t old Muzzol trying to tag me!”

Leroy was still on second when Paul came to bat. Towers had bounced out.

“Put it on ice!” yelled Raneri.

“Bunt and knock ’em all down on your way around,” Towers yelped.

Paul grinned. He knocked the dirt out of his spikes. This was better. This was like ball for the Robins. Wake these guys up and they sounded like any team. Hard to figure, these guys. A series in the offing and they still don’t get off their high horse — not until you push them around a little. That was the thing to do.

Paul felt nice and loose. Ibbert looked white around the mouth. Paul let two go by. And then a third. Three and nothing, the count. As soon as the next one left Ibbert’s hand he knew it was the automatic strike pitch. It came down the line with its thumb out, asking for a ride. He put back and shoulders and hips and ankles and wrists into the swing. He ran hard for first and then slowed down and jogged the rest of the way. The whole team, hands outstretched, was waiting at the plate, screaming their brains out.

And that was definitely all for Mr. Ibbert. Waldo Retting came out for the Sox and put out the fire.

Belton pitched for the Saints in the top half of the ninth. Before he took the mound he grinned at Paul and said. “Call anything but the hop. It just don’t hop today. It’s tired.”

The Sox came to bat grimly. Two pinch hitters were useless. The third batter struck out.

The locker room was noisier than Paul had heard it all season. He couldn’t stop grinning.

Sharker came up and said, “About that little date we got, son.”

“And with Raneri and me, too,” Leroy said. “How about it? One at a time or all three of us.”

“One at a time.” Paul said.

“The hell with that!” Al Sharker said. “Three at once, or we won’t fight you. Do we look stupid?”

Rogan came over, into the circle of laughter. “Stick around,” he told Paul.

After he was dressed in street clothes, Paul found Rogan in his office. Rogan was tilted back, feet on desk, pipe between his teeth. “Sit down, Muzzol.”

Paul sat. As always, with Rogan, he felt ill at ease.

“Took you long enough,” Rogan said.

“For what?”

“To get mad, to come alive. To start getting on top of the team. Thought I’d have to find me another backstop. Catcher holds a team together. Always has. Always will.”

“You could have told me what you wanted,” Muzzol said indignantly.

“Nope. You had to work it out yourself. You were scared of the boys. Stage fright, I guess. They’re just another ball team, with more clippings than most. Ever see a green pitcher facing that Yankee batting order? Same thing. If a manager tries to appoint a spark plug for the team, it’s always phoney. Man has to do it himself. Now you’re on top of them. Stay there. Once in a while I’ll call pitches from the bench. But seldom. Up to you. Ride ’em, rough ’em up. See you around.”

Rogan walked with him to the door. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll see you around for quite a while, I think.”